


A Hazy Shade of Winter

by NyxEtoile, OlivesAwl



Series: Somewhere They Can't Find Me [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlivesAwl/pseuds/OlivesAwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He felt compelled to ask, "Is that a baby?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She crossed her arms, hanging back in the doorway. "I am not an expert. But I think so."</i>
</p><p> <i>Clint rubbed his forehead. "Okay. This hobby of ours is officially getting out of control."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will confess, I am a sucker for a lot of cliched tropes. "We have to pretend we're married/dating because reasons." "We act like we hate each other but then something bad happens to one of us and we must confess our true feelings." And, of course, "We seem to have randomly acquired a baby."
> 
> So, this one came from us wanting to do that last baby one. And in the mean time, Clint and Tasha found some stuff they needed to work out.
> 
> The fic is complete and will update regularly on Fridays.
> 
> Enjoy!

Natasha Romanov tended to catalog major moments in her life by what city she was in when it occurred. It was the joy and curse of living the life she had. It was especially true of her relationship with Clint. Baghdad was where they met, when he’d made a different call, went against orders and changed her life. Prague was where she’d decided she liked having a partner.

In Monaco she’d seen him in a tux for the first time. It was also the first time she’d wanted to seduce him as herself and not the Widow. The two events were completely connected.

In London eight months later she saw an operative she’d known in her old life on the street and spent the night curled on the floor of her hotel room with a bottle of cheap vodka and Clint. She’d told him things she’d never told anyone else, things about her past you couldn’t get from a dossier. He’d sat, still and silent as the sniper he was, touching her foot with two fingers, and listened to everything she said. The past came out of her like pus from an old wound. Things had been different between them after that.

Two months after that, in Tokyo, an yakuza enforcer twice her size and just as fast had broken her arm in three places and held a knife to her throat. He'd died with an arrow in his eye before he could spill a drop of her blood. That was the day she realized she trusted Clint with her life. (Looking back from farther on their road she could admit it was probably the day she started to fall in love with him. Hard not to develop a crush on a man who saved your life and emerged from the shadows to scoop you up and take you home.)

She always thought of New York as where she lost him. She knew Loki had taken him in New Mexico. But it was New York where everything had changed. Where she'd realized the Clint she knew, the strong, solid, bedrock on which she'd built her identity, had changed. He'd been broken, the way she had broken so many times, and she'd been helpless to bring him back.

In Stitch Point she'd found him again, found a new way of being with him. It was scary and huge and changed everything, but she'd never regretted it. Never looked back and wished it different.

They'd been in Venezuela almost six months, the longest she'd spent anywhere since she was a child. She'd lost count of the things she'd learned here. The steps - big and small - they'd taken here. She thought of Venezuela as where she'd found _them_.

In November there had been a rough patch. Rousting a drug dealer preying on the local school had gone south and Clint had taken a graze to the arm. Somewhere in between the shot and her first aid it had gotten infected and two days later he'd been delirious with fever. She'd ended up bribing a doctor at gun point, wary of taking him to the hospital and getting their currently clean IDs dirty with report of a gunshot wound. She been in tears, threatening the doctor in English and Spanish, swearing that if Clint lost any use of his arm she'd take it out on him. She hadn't slept until the fever had broken and the wound had healed over.

It had started up nightmares for both of them. In trying to be strong for the other they'd managed to push each other away. She'd hated him for his calm stoicism and hated herself for her pettiness. The chasm had grown and she'd danced with the idea of leaving, of running away from her problems. He'd sensed it in her, or had the thought himself, and seemed to start preparing for the inevitable. She'd resorted to digging out her old marriage books, hoping to find an answer to their problems in psychological babble and multiple choice quizzes.

In the end she'd had to remind herself of the first lesson she'd learned about working with someone else. You had to trust them. Reaching out to him had been as simple as a question, phrased not as a request for advice but for orders. Their little game of dominance. She'd known he was reaching back when he started answering in his clipped commanding voice.

She adored the game, the way they wove it into their life. It felt like something normal couples did, a way to bring excitement into a long term relationship. A little code that only they understood. They might not play it everyday but in the end it had built the bridge that saved them. That started them talking again.

It was almost Christmas now, and while the holiday had never meant much to her, she did like the lights and festivities. The little village church had set up a nativity scene and Feliz Navidad played on the radio far too often for her comfort. But Clint was smiling again as he set up the hideously tacky fake tree in the corner of the bar, so she tried to feel a little Christmas spirit herself.

"I've baked cookies," she announced, carrying the plate over to his step ladder. "They are surprisingly delicious considering my last attempt."

"Your last attempt was fine." He paused. "When dunked in enough milk." He held his hand out. "Behold. The ugliest Christmas Tree ever created."

She titled her head and studied it. Fake, blue aluminum tree. Neon lights and liquor bottle caps for ornaments. She nodded firmly. "That is the ugliest tree I've ever seen. You've done well, husband." She held the plate out. "I reward you with baked goods."

He took a cookie, and bit off a piece cautiously. His face was impassive. "Hey, not bad."

Her eyes narrowed a little. "Really?"

"Really. I'm just going to get a little milk."

She reached out and punched him - in the right arm - and scowled. "I followed the recipe exactly." She tossed the plate onto the bar. "I fucking weighed flour, Clint. I give up. You can have Oreos and like it."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said. "They actually are good. I was just. . ." He blew out a breath. "I'm sorry. Thank you for the cookies."

She winced, slumping a little. She used to be better at spotting his teasing, at playing along. Much as she wanted to pretend otherwise, there were still land mines. She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to dig out tension that refused to ease. "I'm sorry, I snapped. That was stupid. I should not be worked up over cooking." She picked up one of the cookies and nibbled it. "I'm glad you like them."

"I shouldn't have mocked your cookies," he said. "They are good." He offered her a smile, and she wondered when it would stop being like this.

Still, she conjured her own smile and glanced around the bar. "So. Tacky Christmas tree. What next? Felt stocking on the liquor shelves? Mistletoe?"

"Yes and yes. This is a dive bar. It should look like a sleazy Mall Santa's secret workshop."

"I'd make pop corn strings, but the seagulls would start flying in to peck at them." They sat in silence a moment and she watched him shove another cookie into his mouth. The recent. . . she didn't know what to call it. It hadn't been a fight, or a break up, but 'rough patch' didn't seem to capture how utterly awful it had been. Whatever it was, she'd started feeling oddly domestic since it had happened. She'd have called it nesting if she had anything resembling maternal instinct, or if she didn't already think of nesting as something he did to prep for an op. She didn't really think that learning to make cookies or cornbread or chili or any of his other numerous favorite foods would fix anything. But she wanted to look like she was trying and she was running out of ways to do so.

 She realized he was watching her, obviously wondering where she'd wandered off to. She gave herself a little shake and smiled shyly. "Woolgathering."

He nodded, she realized because his mouth was full. She looked down at the plate and realized he'd eaten six cookies in the time her mind had been wandering. Maybe he was trying, too.

 She looked back at him, still smiling a little. "Do you want me to get you some milk after all?" she said softly. 

"Just a little," he said, putting his hand over his mouth so nothing would fall out when he spoke. There was something very little-kid about it.

Making a mental note to keep that recipe in the little box that now sat on top of their fridge, she climbed easily over the bar and poured him a high ball glass of milk. She sat on the bar, legs dangling as he gulped it down. When he'd drained the glass he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave her a grin that was so very _him_ that her heart ached and her throat closed. Bad memories threatened to rise up in her and she pushed them away, hoping it hadn't shown in her face.

She licked her thumb and reached over, wiping away a smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. It made her think, suddenly, of a mission they'd been on in South Africa years ago. She couldn't quite remember the preceding details, but she did remember having some sort of condiment on her face. He'd licked his thumb and wiped it off like it was no big deal, and she'd given him a look that should have set his hair on fire. He'd just stared back at her impassively, as if daring her to make a big deal out of it. In hindsight she realized all the things he'd been trying to say with little touches like that.

For now, he tugged on her wrist, pulling her down close enough to kiss. The kiss, at least, felt normal. They hadn't for a while. Had felt forced, perfunctory. As if they were both pretending for the other's sake. They'd made her want to slip into an old Widow persona, just to get some sort of pleasure out of it. That, more than anything else, had frightened her. Had told her how close to the end they'd come.

This, now, was really and truly them again. He coaxed her mouth open and she gave up just enough resistance to make it fun. She tasted the chocolate from the cookies on his tongue and felt his other hand come up to cup her shoulder, rubbing the tension there. She buried her hands in his hair and groaned into his mouth at how good it felt.

Eventually, he pulled back."We need to go buy more decorations."

She wondered for a moment if Before that might have turned into something more. She shook the thought off sharply. Second guessing everything wasn't going to do anyone any good. The kiss had been good, they were both happy. She needed to stop thinking, sometimes.

"I'm looking forward to having mistletoe to trap you under," she teased, hopping off the bar to land lightly on her feet next to him.

"We can hang one over the bed," he replied.

She grinned. "One at each end."

He raised an eyebrow. "Deal."

Once out on the street she reached out with as much confidence as she could muster and took his hand as they walked down to the five and dime store for more tacky decorations. He didn't comment, but she could see his smile out of the corner of her eye.

*

The upcoming holidays had given the bar the closest thing to a slow period they'd seen since moving there. It was still livelier than Stitch Point on its best day, but far quieter than Clint had become accustomed. A roomful of locals, catching beers after work or sharing a drink on the beginning or end of a date. He liked to distract himself guessing who was on a legitimate date and who was starting an affair or a one night stand. It passed the time when the crowds were low.

Nat helped out for the after work and dinner rush, then retreated to the back to do bookkeeping, leaving him and their part-time help, Rudy to take care of things. He missed watching her move around the room in her shorts and low cut tops. But without a crowd to serve she'd probably spend more time distracting him than waitressing. 

Though, maybe that wasn't a bad thing. She felt. . . accessible to him again. For a while she had retreated behind her walls, and he'd lost all ability to read her. She'd been angry at him for almost dying, or at least angry at him for having trouble handling it. It had been impossible to tell, and they still hadn't talked about it. But they were at least putting it behind them. Maybe they could just. . . go on, now.

They were still almost an hour till closing when she materialized. He hid his surprise, once she'd left he usually didn't see her until he made his way upstairs. For a second he thought she might be there to tempt him into playing hooky, but one look at her face and the way she walked told him that wasn't it.

She ducked around the bar and slid her arms around his waist as he finished popping the top to a beer and handing it over to a customer. She smiled like she was going to say something naughty and put her mouth up to his ear. "Come upstairs as soon as you can get away without suspicion. We have a problem."

The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he nodded. The time between when she left and when he actually managed to follow her felt interminable. He ended up having to help Rudy clear out the last of the drunks, then left the other man to clean and lock up.

He took the steps two at a time, making enough noise that Nat met him at the door. "I heard a noise in the alley when I was working in the office," she said without preamble. "I figured it was a drunk taking a piss so I went out to roust them. I had my knife," she added, taking his arm to lead him to the bedroom. "Instead I found this." She stopped him in the doorway and gestured to a shape on the bed.

From the size he thought it might be an animal. There were a lot of strays all over town. But it seemed very unlike Nat to put it on their bed. As he stepped closer, it made an unmistakable sound.

Yet he felt compelled to ask, "Is that a baby?"

She crossed her arms, hanging back in the doorway. "I am not an expert. But I think so."

"Who leaves a baby in an alley behind a bar?"

"There was a note." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, handing it over.

_I am told you help people,_ it said in crooked Spanish. _Please help him. He is not safe with me any longer._

Clint rubbed his forehead. "Okay. This hobby of ours is officially getting out of control."

There was a pause before she answered and he braced himself for some sort of reference to his getting shot. Instead, he got a very neutral, "Agreed." Which was almost worse.

The baby squawked again and Nat edged closer to peer at it. "I don't know what to do with him. Who is he not safe from? Why didn't she just bring him to the police?"

"You know how corrupt they can be in this country." They'd never had any trouble with the locals, but the fact that there had turned out to be a booming market for their little investigation-and-vigilante operation spoke volumes about the competency of said police force. He leaned closer to the baby, and wrinkled his nose. "Do you smell that?"

"Oh for—I _just_ changed him." She gestured to an overstuffed diaper bag sitting on the floor by the bed. "He both pissed and vomited on me. I think we should call him Tony."

That made Clint laugh out loud. "Appropriate. And I'm really glad you know how to change a diaper, because I have no fucking clue." He looked down. "I probably should curse in front of him. Though I doubt he understands English."

"i don't know that he understands anything, Clint. Though he was very upset that nomming on my boob did not produce the intended results."

He pointed at the baby. "Those are mine."

Nat chuckled next to him. "It kept him quiet. Like I said: Tony." She bent and rummaged in the diaper bag and came out with a diaper, a blanket and a little plastic box. "Move." She nudged him out of the way and bent over the baby, unwrapping the blanket to get at his diaper.

He wrinkled his nose. "Don't get baby shit on the bed." He had no idea she had this many maternal skills, and it was kind of adorable to watch her handle him. 

"Says the man who's never done a load of laundry in my presence," she said to the baby in a conspiratorial tone. She changed the diaper with swift, perfunctory moves and wrapped the old one up in paper towels before carrying it to the bathroom. He heard water running and she came back drying her hands on a towel. "What are we going to do with him?"

"I don't know. I think we're stuck with him for tonight. Is there, like, an instruction booklet in that bag?"

"I'm afraid not." She considered the baby a moment. "Well, he looks at least seven or eight months, he should probably sleep the night if we can get him down. We're gonna need some food and formula tomorrow, though." His face must have shown some of his confusion because she sighed deeply. "I worked as an au pair for half a year when I was seventeen so I could seduce and assassinate an ambassador. I got a very thorough course in child care prior to it."

"Ah," he said. "I've never actually held one." She turned to look at him in astonishment and he held up his hands. "Look at me, Nat. Would you hand me your baby?"

"I've seen how you hold your bow. I'd hand you all manner of fragile things." She waved at the bed. "He's not even an infant. Holds his head up and everything."

He was going to have to sleep somewhere. In the bed with them? Was that weird? He'd heard something about babies getting suffocated sleeping in beds. They didn't have a crib. Maybe the bathtub? He guessed that was probably not good either.

He sighed. Somehow he suspected there would be no sex tonight.

_All manner of fragile things._ He wondered if that covered things you couldn't see, too.

The baby - he should probably start thinking of him as Tony, she actually sounded serious about that - was whining again. Nat scooped him up and held him against her shoulder. "Shh. I bet you're tired," she murmured to him in a very un-Nat voice. She rubbed his back in little circles while she paced.

She caught Clint's eye over the baby's head. "Pull on of the drawers out of the dresser. Take the clothes out, pad it with a quilt and put one of his blankies in it. I'm gonna walk him around and see if I can get him to sleep."

He watched her pace into the living room, and then followed her instructions about making the nest. He put it on the floor by her side of the bed. He didn't know how mobile or grabby the baby was, but he took the bullets out of the gun in the headboard just in case.

He got himself ready for bed, listening to her pace the living room, singing her Russian lullaby over and over. Kid was going to be trilingual before they were done with it. He was half dozing himself when she carried the baby back into the room, still humming sweetly. She settled him into the nest Clint had made, sitting on the bed and watching to make sure he settled. Then she flopped down next to him with a groan. "Success," she whispered.

He reached out to rub her back. "I like your lullaby."

She made a soft sound he usually associated with more naked activities. "Thank you," she murmured. "It's the only one I know."

"You sang it to me when I was sick," he said, and instantly regretted it. Especially when her shoulders tightened. They didn't really talk about that time.

Silence stretched and he thought she might pretend to be asleep to get out of the conversation. Finally, however, she said, "It soothed you."

"I don't remember much," he said cautiously. "But I remember that."

She shifted, curling close to him, warm and soft against his side. "I'm glad," she said, voice small. "That you knew I was there."

He did have a few other memories. How she'd somehow wrestled him into the bath to try and bring the fever down. She'd told him later, matter-of-factly, that it had hit 105. He remembered her crying, wanting to comfort her but being trapped in the fog. He remembered being afraid. "I never doubted that," he whispered to her.

She brushed a kiss against his jaw, his cheek. The air seemed heavy with things she wanted to say and things left unsaid. She tucked her face into his shoulder. "I would never leave you."

For a little bit there, he'd wondered if she would. As they'd slowly closed off from each other, some instinct told him that she might. Then he was angry at himself for thinking it, and angry at her because he was afraid it might have been true. The best he could do at the time was brace himself, which only made everything worse. But he didn't want to bring it up. He didn't want to fight. Not tonight. So he told her, 'I know."


	2. Chapter 2

Nat woke suddenly and completely, not sure what had startled her. A glance around the room showed nothing out of place. Then she remembered the night before and the baby and sat up to see a diapered butt scooting its way towards the bathroom. Apparently, Tony could crawl.

She stifled a curse and got up, catching him before he could reach the door. He squealed and patted her face in delight. "Yes, good morning to you, too," she muttered.

Since Clint had somehow managed to sleep through her leaping out of bed - and had, in fact, sprawled out to claim her side - she grabbed the diaper bag and carried Tony out into the living room. She built a makeshift pen out of furniture and couch cushions and went to the kitchen to find him something to eat.

Ten minutes later she was feeding him bites of banana and avocado and congratulating herself on her awesome parenting. She didn't know why Clint was so flummoxed by it. Babies were easy. Their needs were simple and easily met. Food, sleep, dry butt. Attention and affection. Babies she could handle.

This did not make it any less embarrassing when Clint came out of the bedroom, shirtless and delightfully sleep rumpled, to find her playing peekaboo with the child.

"I see he escaped," he commented.

"He can crawl," she told him. "And he likes avocado but was pretty sure the banana was an attempt at poison. And he has ticklish thighs." She demonstrated, sending the baby into a fit of squealing giggles.

"I have to admit, he is cute. Did you make coffee?"

"In the pot. Bring me a cup, please?"

He was back a moment later with two mugs, handing one over to her. He sat on the floor because she'd taken all the cushions off the couch to make the pen. "This isn't that big a town. Somebody's got to know something."

"We're going to have to be careful asking questions. Us having a sudden interest in babies is going to be suspicious." She sipped her coffee and smiled to find it was perfectly sweetened. "In the mean time, we're going to need some supplies if he's staying here."

"We can't—there has to be somewhere that will take him."

She looked over at him, holding her mug up out of Tony's grasp. "Where? His mother didn't trust to police, so we can't. I don't know anyone here I trust enough to give him to. We don't know who we're protecting him from. Unless you want to call in someone from outside. I don't know that Coulson babysits, though."

He made a face that indicated he was reluctantly conceding her point. "How much gear are we talking about?"

The contents of the baby bag were spread out on the dining table after a frantic hunt for something to distract him when she'd gone to pee earlier. Nat got to her feet to survey it. "He's got enough shirts and stuff. There were a couple of bottles and he seems to tolerate real food okay. We're down to half a dozen diapers, though. And he needs toys or something to entertain him. Plus more food he can eat. Shockingly, we don't have a lot of stuff that doesn't require chewing."

"Maybe we should get some sort of container, too."

She looked down at him. "It's called a playpen, Clint. Unless you want to go straight to dog training crate."

"I feel like that would be frowned upon."

"A little, yeah."

He blew out a breath. "All right. Make me a list and I'll got get it."

She bent and kissed the top of his head. "And after that, you're learning to change a diaper," she told him, climbing over the barricade to find paper.

He called her twice from the store, and it took him three trips to get everything upstairs. "People kept congratulating me. I think half the town now thinks you're pregnant."

"There goes my monthly drinking contest with the guys from the gas plant." She pulled her knife out to slice into the box that contained a combination playpen and bassinet. Inside was a mess of poles and fabric. She cursed under her breath.

"See, assembling things, that I can do," he said.

"All yours," she told him, stepping aside so he could start unpacking it. "I'm going to see what I can do with the fruit you brought.  
 And that was how, two of the worlds most efficient and lethal assassins spent half a day building baby furniture and making baby food while a seven month old crawled between them and demanded attention.

Clint finished the bassinet just in time for Tony to nap in it, tucked away safely in their room. She came out to find him on the reassembled couch, tasting the applesauce she'd made. "We're doing a lot of conforming to gender roles today," she muttered, sinking down next to him.

"It's been a weird day. This is pretty tasty."

She'd made it for the baby, but supposed she could just make another batch later. She stretched out on the couch and propped her feet in his lap, just to be touching part of him. "Maybe someone in the bar will bring gossip of a missing baby," she murmured. "Save us some detection."

He rubbed her ankles. "You're better at recon than I am," he said rather reluctantly.

"I can work a full shift. Give Rudy some time off.” His hand encircled her ankle, then slid up to rub her calf. She sighed in pleasure and let her head tip back. It was remarkable sometimes how much she wanted him. Not even sex - though that was nice and he had a tendency to make her feel insatiable - but just his touch. The feeling of connection, of not be alone in the world. It had been the hardest thing, after he was sick. She'd felt the gap grow between them and had been afraid to touch him, right when she needed that connection most.

He was watching her now, food forgotten and she smiled coyly. "What would you like me to wear tonight?"

"I don't think I'm going to get to enjoy tonight's outfit. I'll have to stay up here with the kid."

Ah, fuck. She hadn't thought of that. No wonder he'd sounded reluctant. "Dammit," she muttered. "Guess Rudy isn't getting time off."

"I think this is why people who have kids are always tired and stressed out. It's like having a puppy you can't crate train."

"Are you going to be okay alone with him?"

He resumed rubbing her leg. "I think I can handle him for the evening."

She sighed and leaned her head back. "Your rewards will be great after he's asleep."

Both of his eyebrows went up. "Really? While he's here? Isn't that weird?"

Her brow lifted of its own accord. "How do you think people have second children, Clint?"

"Well. . yes, but those are _their_ children. This is some else's kid." 

She stared a him a moment. "Are you - do you really want to not have sex until we get him home? Is this some sort of ploy to get me to find out what's going on faster?"

He folded his arms over his chest. "All I'm saying is I find it weird."

She probably shouldn't find his discomfort so adorable. It was so rare she found something he was. . . prudish about. She scooted closer to him. "The bassinet is portable. It has wheels. We can put him out here if it makes you uncomfortable." She slid into his lap, winding her arms around his neck. "Or we could fuck out here," she whispered in his ear. "And he'll never know."

She felt him shiver. "You're kind of loud," he replied. "And we shouldn't let him out of our sight."

"I can be very quiet," she told him, kissing his throat. "With proper motivation."

"Nat," he said, sounding gruffer than she expected. "Let's just get this figured out so he can go back to his mother."

Hurt stabbed through her, chased far too closely by anger. For an instant she was furious at him. At herself. At the baby and his mother and whoever had threatened her enough to come to them in the first place. Why on earth had they decided to become the saviors of this fucking corrupt little town. They were supposed to be retired. Safe. At peace. And still violence found them. Tried to take him—

She bit down on all of that and stood, picking up the empty applesauce bowl and carrying it to the kitchen without a word.

It was a minute or two before he got up to follow her. "All I say lately is I'm sorry."

Nat stared at the sink, not really seeing it. She felt sick. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hurt someone, even herself. Violence had always been her answer to stress. But she didn't want to hurt him. So she swallowed hard and tried to make her voice sound normal. "You don't have to apologize. It makes you uncomfortable. I shouldn't have pushed."

"Yes, but clearly I hit a nerve." He was quiet. "Please. I don't want to go back to when we didn't talk and pretended everything was fine."

Sometimes she wished he'd yell and break things. That he'd meet her fury with his own. But if he was that kind of man they never would have gotten this far. She needed his calm to center her. Needed the mountain to halt the fire. She took a deep breath in through her nose. Her thoughts were a muddle of anger and fear and frustration. She needed to sort them out. Find words. She was supposed to be good with words, with talking. She could do this.

"This wasn't what it was supposed to be like," she finally said, voice gone almost monotone with the effort it took to voice her feelings. "We were going to retire. Live small. Run the bar and—and find peace. And instead we have this reputation now and people find us and bring their problems to our doorstep and ruin—" She felt panic rising up again and squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the edge of the sink. "It's like no matter what I do violence finds me and I can't escape."

He took a step closer, and put his hand on her arm. It was only three fingers, actually, and he did it with obvious caution. But he was him, so he had to touch her. "Let's go, then. We did set up in kind of a violent place. We'll deal with the kid, and then we'll get out of here. We have clean IDs now. We can go somewhere really calm and boring. Like Canada."

She let the fingers ground her, steady her. Her foundation in chaos, as always. "Do you really think it will matter? Or is it just going to find us there? We'll probably just settle next to a secret Hydra enclave. Or diamond smugglers. Or—or a counterfeit syrup operation. We'll just spend the rest of out lives trying to settle and having to leave again, because trouble found us. For fuck's sake, you went to the middle of nowhere in Alaska and there was an alien spaceship underneath a mine. We're fucking magnets, Clint."

"Well, then let's just call Coulson and take his offer. At least we'll have access to a hospital the next time one of us get shot."

He didn't mean it as an accusation. She didn't _think_ he did, anyway. Lately she didn't trust her ability to read him at all. Whatever his intent, the words ripped open the poorly healed wound on her heart, making it bleed anew. She didn't know which of them was more surprised when she started to cry.

It took him a moment to move, and then he tugged on her arm, pulling her closer until he could hold her against his chest. "I'm sorry. I know you did the best you could. I didn't mean. . ."

Now he was apologizing again. It would have been funny if it wasn't so awful. Much as she wanted to run and hide - she'd never been comfortable showing weakness, not even to him - she pressed herself against him, burying her face in his shirt. He was comforting. His arms, his scent. She slid her arms around his waist and sobbed, utterly embarrassed but unable to stop. She had cried when he was sick and feverish. She'd been certain he wouldn't live the night and the reality of it had crushed her. Paralyzed her. She fought it all down since then, not letting herself think about what if.

He rocked her slowly, face pressed in her hair, not saying anything. She knew he'd stand there for as long as she needed. The tears finally ran their course and she pulled away, grabbing a paper towel off the counter roll to blow her nose. "I'm sorry," she said, voice hoarse. She dabbed at the wet spot on his t-shirt futilely. "I'm sorry. I know you didn't mean it like that."

"You did the right thing," he said, clearly needing to say something. She didn't know how comfortable he was with tears. She wasn't usually a crier. "We didn't need questions and. . ." 

"Please stop," she said softly. "Please. I'm sorry. I know I'm messed up and you want to talk about it and fix it but I just can't. I can't do it. I have to open the bar soon and I'm going to have to be on and try to get information and work the crowd. It's already hard to do without. . . the way I used to do it. I can't do this right now."

He took three slow breaths, and took a step back. "I'll go call Rudy and see if he can come in early." His voice was entirely devoid of any hint of emotion, in any direction.

Which meant, of course, that he was as pissed as he ever got and this was most assuredly not over. She would take the reprieve, though. Take the time to put her defenses back up. She nodded stiffly. "I'm going to go wash my face. Change." He nodded, and left without another word.

She fought down another wave of tears and straightened her spine, trying to draw the Widow around her like a cloak. When she felt steady again she went to the bedroom to get ready.


	3. Chapter 3

Nat getting changed woke the baby up, and since he was on sitter duty tonight, Clint went in to retrieve him. He even managed to get his diaper changed. It was a little crooked, but seemed like it would stay on.

She lined up a couple bowls of baby food she'd made, plus some crackers and weird freeze-dried yogurt thing on the counter before she left, obviously to make it easier for him to find food for the kid. She didn't say goodbye on her way out. He sat on the couch with Tony and let him plow through a stack of crackers as the sounds of the bar got louder below.

They watched some TV. They didn't have a lot of channels, but there seemed to be a soccer match on at least one of them at all times, so they watched that. He wondered idly if this was the sort of thing men did with their sons. His father hadn't been particularly interested in bonding activities. He'd mostly only been interested in where is booze was, and Clint had been mostly interested in staying out of his way.

"Do you have a Dad?" he asked Tony, who, of course, was not going to reply. "If you did I'd think he'd be out tearing the town apart looking for you." He paused. "Unless he's a jerk like mine was, in which case you're better off without him."

Clint had been kind of dreading getting the baby to sleep. Lullabies weren't really his thing. But after a couple more diaper changes, a bowl and a half of pureed mango and yet another soccer game Tony drooped on his shoulder and put himself to sleep. He sat a few minutes with the dozing baby on his chest, surprised at how peaceful it was. He hadn't really been seeing the upside of kids yet, but this was kind of nice.

Once he was in the bassinet, Clint was at loose ends. He cleaned up the remnants of Tony's dinner and scrounged in the fridge for his own. He kind of wished he had some video surveillance equipment. He could set something up to monitor the baby and then go downstairs. Though maybe Nat would prefer he left her alone.

He still had no idea what had happened this afternoon. He couldn't recall ever seeing her cry like that. She'd cried a little when she found him in Mexico, but this had been like a dam breaking. And then she'd immediately shut down again. She'd said she wanted to help people. To do things that were black-and-white. To balance the ledger.

Maybe violence and death really was inevitable for them. It was what they were good at.

The night dragged on. He wondered what Nat did with herself when she waited for him to lock up. Probably read. He peered at her bookcase but couldn't read enough Cyrillic to make it worth his while.

Finally, he heard her tread on the stairs and their door opened soundlessly. She looked bone tired, hair coming out of her ponytail in wild wisps. She glanced at him on his spot on the couch, then scanned the room, checking for the baby, he assumed. Apparently satisfied she pulled a folded piece of paper out of her shirt and handed it to him.

Unfolding it revealed a picture of Tony the baby and Spanish words declaring him missing and the offer of a reward for any information.

"Where did you get it?" he asked.

"Police came by, asking around. Apparently, his father is high ranking in the local department." She sank onto the other end of the couch. They didn't really have a lot of seating in their apartment. "Got as much information as I could. Guy's corrupt as shit. Nobody knows much about his wife, other than he's a very jealous man and she's often bruised. Klutzy, you know."

Clint sighed. "Well. Shit."

"Yeah. I admittedly didn't have much time to formulate a plan. But I don't know that assassinating an influential cop is really a bridge we want to cross."

He rubbed his brow. "We should find a way to let his mother know he's safe."

Nat nodded. "I'd like to talk to her. See what she would do if she had options. Maybe she has somewhere she could go."

"An evac would probably be an easier thing for us to coordinate."

"Probably cause less ripples in the community, too."

They were being quite business-like. He supposed that was for the best. Though, it hadn't been before. He really didn't want them to retreat back into silence. "We can talk about it in the morning. You must be tired."

She was silent a moment, then closed her eyes briefly. "I don't think I can sleep."

"Do you want to talk? Or do you want me to just go away?" He winced. That came out harsher then he intended. He supposed he was still mad after all.

Something like pain flickered over her features. She took a few deep breaths and said, "I don't want you to go away." Something about her tone made him think he'd hit another nerve.

"I don't know what's going on here, Tasha," he said honestly.

She was silent and he gave her time to process whatever it was she was feeling into something she could express. Finally, she started talking, very softly. "When you were sick I thought you were going to die. I found the doctor and brought him in. And he took one look at you and said you were going to die unless he took your arm." Her throat worked. "I thought about you waking up without your arm and I knew I'd lose you anyway." She glanced at him. "Was I wrong?"

He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, trying to think about life with one arm. "I. . . Hell, if I didn't kill myself after New York, missing a limb is not going to do it." He spared her a glance. "Or is it that you wouldn't want me anymore?" 

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped. He didn't think she could have looked more shocked if he'd actually slapped her. "No, Clint! God no. I just. . . I thought even if you didn't kill yourself then you still wouldn't be _you_ anymore. The bow is _part_ of you. Even after New York you had that. I didn't think I'd recognize you without that."

She didn't intend it, but that sounded like a 'yes' to his ears. He didn't know what to make of that. "I'm not the same person I was before New York, either." Of course, he hadn't expected her to like the person he'd become. It was one of the reasons he'd left. He no longer fit in the dynamic they'd built. And then she'd come to Alaska and proven him wrong. 

But one of the things she did seem to need from him was strength, and he'd still had that. He closed his eyes. He didn't want them to be at odds, but he didn't know what to say. "I bet Stark could have built me an arm, anyway."

She smiled a little at that, then looked down at her hands. Her fingers were twisting together in a way that looked painful. "When Coulson called me in and told me you were compromised I knew there was a very good chance I'd lost you. That you would die or we'd be unable to undo what was done to you. I tried to come to terms with that. It _hurt_ and I was determined to do anything I could to prevent it. But I could see the other side of it." She swallowed hard. "The doctor put in the IV and shot you full of antibiotics and told me you'd probably be dead by morning and I could not handle it. I was just paralyzed. I can't see the other side of it anymore and it's terrifying."

He felt the same. He had for a long time. "I know," he said quietly. "I felt it waiting for you in Mexico."

She nodded a little and he saw her shoulders relax a little, as if telling him had released something in her. Her neck and shoulders had been a wall of knots and tense muscle lately. "After you recovered the fear didn't go away. I started having. . . awful nightmares. I know I should have told you but you were still healing and I didn't want to make you almost dying about me and my demons. So I just. . . tried to deal with it. But it still catches up to me, sometimes."

He reached out to touch her, because he just. . . needed to. He just very gently stroked her arm. "I thought you were angry at me and I couldn't figure out why."

She looked down at his hand and for an awful moment he thought she might cry again. "I'm sorry. I wasn't. I was angry at everything and I didn't know how to handle it and I tried so hard not to take it out on you. I wanted to be strong for you."

"I never asked you to do that."

Her fingers curled around his, squeezing tight. "But I _wanted_ to. You're always strong for me, no matter what's going on with you. And now here you were sick and weak and I was falling apart. I didn't want to do that to you. I wanted you to know you could count on me."

He looked down at their hands. "I don't know that this relationship needs any more stoicism than it's already got."

She gave a little humorless laugh. "Yeah. I guess not." She covered her eyes with her other hand. "I really fucked this up."

He wanted to tell her that it was all right. That everything was fine, not to worry. But he didn't feel that way. "There are two of us. And I'm not any stronger than you, Tash, I'm just better at hiding it." 

She dropped her hand and was quiet and still. "What do we do now?" she asked softly.

"I don't know. But we're talking about it. That's something." She'd been very honest with him. Surely he owed her the same. She just seemed fragile right now, and she was all he had. He tugged her arm a little. "Come here." She slid across the couch to him, movements jerky, like she'd forgotten how her limbs worked. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, where it met his shoulder. "I love you," he told her.

He felt her shudder a little and she pressed closer to him. "I love you, too."

For a long while he just held her, thinking about all the days he'd woken up wondering if she'd be gone. "I need you," he told her. "It really is all right to need me, too."

"I don't want to be like this," she said into his skin. There was no self-pity in her voice. She sounded almost resigned. "I don't want to have walls close up every time something goes wrong. I don't want emotion to frighten me. I have moments where I forget. When I'm just Tasha and I love you and it's easy. Then it goes away again and I can't get it back."

"I think we do pretty good considering how fucked up we both are."

She laughed a little, this time actually sounding amused. "I try."

Since she seemed steadier, he found the nerve to say, "Can I ask you something?"

With a shift of muscle, she sat up enough to look at him. "What is it?"

He looked at her for a long moment. "Were you thinking of leaving?"

Her head tilted and her lips pursed a little, like she was deciding whether to answer or not. "It occurred to me. Like a fight or flight instinct. I couldn't kill the problem, so there was a gut response to run from it. But it was only that. Not a conscious thought, not a real option." She gave a wry smile. "I'm terrified of being without you. Leaving you isn’t the answer."

He touched her hair. "I guess it's good I can still read you."

She leaned into his touch. "I wouldn't disappear," she said softly. "Wouldn't just pack up in the night. Please believe that."

He searched her face. "Is that something you're asking of me?"

Her mouth worked a little, tightening at the corners. "Yes," she said finally. 

He nodded, and pulled her closer so he could kiss her. They needed to have faith in each other, if this was going to work. She slid her arms around him, hands fisting in his shirt. She let him control the kiss, keeping it light, gentle. He didn't want that, not right now. He cupped her neck in one hand, deepening the kiss. He pushed her shirt up with the other one.

Her breathing changed as she realized what he was about. She released his shirt, lifting her arms so he could tug her shirt off, breaking the kiss to do it. She was all but spilling out of the little demi bra she wore under her bar clothes. He scooped one breast out enough to fill his hand with it, but he had no patience right now. He needed her. He needed both of them to take their walls down. Her shorts were very short, but very tight. Getting them off proved a fight, and he flipped her over onto her back on the couch before he could finally yank them down.

Her underwear, if she'd been wearing any, went with the shorts. He took a moment to just look at her, sprawled on the couch in just a scrap of a bra, watching him with dark, hooded eyes. Deliberately, holding her gaze, he brought a hand to her sex, cupping her possessively. Her lids fluttered and she reached for him, fumbling with his belt. He stroked her until her moisture coated his fingers, which was about how long it took her to get his jeans unzipped. That was plenty, he didn't feel like waiting to actually get them off. He hitched one of her legs up and buried himself deep.

She gasped, head tipping back. He drew back, almost leaving her completely, before thrusting back in. She pulled her leg up, hooking it on the back of the couch, spreading herself wide for him. His next thrust went deeper and she arched beneath him, teeth digging into her lower lip.

It was fast and rough and without a whole lot of control, as he quickly got lost in desperation and the intoxicating feel of her body. He found her mouth with his, and tried to put some tenderness in the kiss. But her nails scratched down his back, making it hard to form thoughts, hard to slow down.

He had just started to feel the telltale flutter of muscles around his cock, when she pressed a kiss to his ear and whispered in a broken, desperate voice, "Close. I'm so close. Please."

He did manage to slow down, grinding against her the way he knew she liked. "Come for me," he whispered back. "Not a sound." He felt her shudder at his tone and her nails dug in his back again. She lifted her hips, thrusting herself roughly against him. Then the flutters became tighter, faster and knew she was lost. She arched and writhed beneath him, then lifted her head enough to bite his shoulder as she rode it out. She was completely silent through it all. The teeth did him in, though, and when he came he wasn't nearly as quiet as he'd made her be.

She held him as he sank on top of her, still mostly clothed. His weight pressed her deep into the couch cushions but she didn't utter a protest, just held him. She shivered once and he felt her tighten in one last aftershock of orgasm before she lay still. 

"I wouldn't let you leave," he mumbled into her shoulder. "I wouldn't."

"I know," she whispered, stroking his hair. For the first time since the tears in the kitchen she sounded like Tasha again. "I know you wouldn't. I'm yours."

He sighed, nuzzling her neck. "It's all right if sometimes we're both weak."

To his surprise she didn't stiffen or pull away. Just pressed her face into his hair and whispered, "I'll try to remember."

Eventually he sat up. He didn't say anything, just buttoned his jeans and scooped her up in his arms. He sat her down on the bed, went to check the baby was still sleeping, and then undressed to join her under the blankets. She rolled onto her side and he curled around her, spooned against her back. He draped an arm over her and she covered his hand with hers. "Goodnight," she said softly.

He kissed her shoulder. "Goodnight," he whispered back.


	4. Chapter 4

Nat felt better than she had in ages. She'd woken up feeling lighter, as if she'd been carrying an overstuffed survival pack around the last few weeks and someone had finally allowed her to take it off. She wasn't under the impression everything was all better now. It took more than a few confessions and a fantastic round of sex for that. But, as Clint had said, they were talking, and that was something. It had been a good reminder, one she'd needed. It was like any other mission they'd been on together. When she was uncertain it was best to check in with her partner. He saw everything from a different angle.

Right now, however, she should probably be focusing on breaking into the mansion of a well connected, corrupt police official to have a chat with his abused wife. The guy was definitely up to something shady. A city official should not have a house this nice.

She took a page from Clint's book, perching in a tree with some binocs, scanning the security. Not as bad as she'd feared. She counted three cameras and a guy at the gated driveway. No patrol. She stowed the binoculars and climbed down the tree.

Scaling the wall was child's play. She took a circuitous route through the gardens to avoid the cameras and started testing windows, slipping through an open one into a stuffy parlor. Now to find the Mrs.

Somewhere in the house a TV was blaring a telenovella, and that seemed the most logical direction to head in. Sure enough, in a room off the kitchen a woman with two black eyes was folding laundry.

The woman looked up when Nat stepped through the doorway and her mouth opened up to scream. Nat held up her hand. "Don't. My name is Nat. I run a bar down by the ocean. I believe you left me and my husband a package a couple nights ago."

Her eyes widened. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine. Well fed and as spoiled as we can manage. I'm here to talk about you. Are you alone?"

She nodded. "My husband won't be home for another couple of hours."

Nat let herself relax a little. "Good. What's your name?"

"Marisol. The baby is Carlos. I realized I didn't put that on the note. I'm sorry, I was in a hurry-"

"It's fine. We've been calling him Tony but Carlos is better." She paused. "You know we can't keep him, right? He needs his Mama."

"I know." She took a shuddery breath. "But my husband tried to smother him."

Jesus. Nat was going to need to have a talk with this guy. An extremely violent one. "If we can get you out-- you and Carlos -- away from him, preferably to a different country, would you go?"

She blinked. "Where? _How?_ And how would I live?"

Well, it wasn't a no. "You have family anywhere? Preferably some your husband doesn't know too well?"

Marisol stared at her a moment, then her eyes lit up. "Costa Rica. I have a cousin. I haven't seen her since I was a little girl. I don't think I ever told Roberto about her."

"We may be able to arrange that. I will need to make some calls."

"I can't pay you."

Everyone always thought they were in it for the money. "It's fine." Nat dug in a pocket and pulled out a burner phone. "You have somewhere you can hide this?" Marisol nodded. "Okay. We're gonna do what we need to do. I'll text you with a date and time once we're ready. Pack a go bag. Small, just a few pieces of clothes, some cash and jewelry you don't mind selling if you have it. You need to be ready to go on short notice."

"What about Roberto?" She asked. "If he finds out. . ."

"You let me worry about Roberto. He won't find you."

"He could come after you. If he figures it out."

Possible. That might actually be fun. "If he does then he'll be dead," she told the other woman.

"He has very powerful friends."

"So do I. And worst case, my husband and I know how to disappear. Don't worry about us."

Finally the woman nodded. "Thank you. They said you could make miracles happen."

Nat wondered briefly if she could find this 'they' and tell them to shut the fuck up about them for a while. She nodded and pointed at the phone. "Keep it close. We'll be in touch."

"Thank you. God bless you."

She nodded again and made her way out the same way she'd come in.

An hour later she let herself into their apartment, ready to debrief Clint, only to find him dozing on the couch, a sleeping baby on his chest. She moved silently to stand in front of them and get a better view. Something twanged deep inside her at the sight of him sleeping, holding the baby protectively with both hands.

For a moment she let herself imagine some world in which they could have been normal. No ledgers or aliens. No gods and monsters. Just Clint and Tasha, happy and simple. She indulged in wistfulness a moment, then packed it away. Thinking about impossible things was a recipe for driving yourself mad. This was the life they had, for better or worse. He was hers. She loved him, trusted him, _needed_ him. She would never trade that for a mystical 'what if.'

He opened his eyes and smiled at her—of course he'd known she was there. He held a finger to his mouth to request silence. She nodded and put a knee on the sofa next to him, leaning over the baby to kiss Clint's brow, about as chaste a kiss as she could muster. It soothed the urge she had to touch him, at any rate. He smiled at her, and then he stood up very slowly, clearly trying to be able to put the baby to nap in bassinet.

She watched him walk to the bedroom, movements smooth and easy. Carlos didn't even peep. Clint disappeared into the other room, then reemerged, baby-free, a look of triumph on his face. She couldn't help but grin in response.

"My Op was a success, how was yours?" he asked.

"All but flawless." She recapped her conversation with Marisol as succinctly as possible. "Costa Rica is a pretty easy arrangement, I think. We could even do it by boat, if you think the airports are out."

"I'll do some research," he replied. He sat back on the couch. "Costa Rica's a nice place."

"It's my second favorite coffee source."

He was watching her. "Might be a nice place to be."

The penny dropped and she refocused, giving the conversation her full attention. "You mean for us."

He lifted a shoulder. "The coffee cartels are probably nicer."

She watched him a moment, then looked away, off into the middle distance as she processed the idea. She appreciated he gave her space to do so, watching impassively as she sorted. "It feels like running away," she said finally. "I'm not opposed to it. But that's my first reaction."

"I don't mind running," he replied. "As long as we do it together."

That caused a reflexive smile and she looked back at him. "Can I think about it? I want it to be a decision, not just a reaction to fear."

"Of course. I just wanted to put it out there. We could go anywhere, really. Actually live small this time."

"It's appealing," she admitted, voice soft. "I thought the housewife stuff would drive me crazy. But I don't mind it. I even like cooking. Sort of."

"I miss the early days here. When it was just you and me and the beach. Or when we were sailing around on the boat, trying to decide where to be."

She missed it, too. Still reeling from SHIELD and Hydra and the loss of her secrets, it had been nice to just be with him. To only have to worry about what bikini to wear or if the drunk in the corner would be a problem. It had been a time remarkably free of fear. "I think leaving is a good idea," she said, feeling the truth of it even as the words came out. "It's more unstable here than we thought. Eventually we're going to make a real enemy."

"I don't think we're ever going to spend years in the same place. It's not who we are."

She thought of her list of cities and nodded, feeling something un-clench. She had that sense of lightness again. "We could go revisit some old favorites."

"I think that might be fun. You still anti-snow?"

"It would mean the end of bikini lunches."

He tilted his head. "You have a very valid point." He held out an arm for her, a silent request that she come closer.

She half stood, shifting over to tuck herself under his arm. He curled it around her shoulders, hand on her arm, pressing her into his side. She closed her eyes, unable to repress a little sigh of comfort. "I felt better this morning," she told him. "Less afraid. Less angry."

He kissed her hair. "You'd been carrying that a while."

She lifted a hand and pressed it against his chest, rubbing lightly. "Maria Hill once told me I was like a cat. I hid pain until I was ready to bleed out. Then I might mention I had a paper cut." Nat chuckled. "Apparently, she had a cat almost die of a tooth abscess, all the while pretending it was fine."

"I know the feeling," he said. She supposed he did. They were alike in that way. In hindsight she had no idea why she'd chosen to believe him when he insisted he was fine after New York, after Loki. It defied all logic, particularly when she knew he had a tendency to suppress anything that might disrupt his calm. He'd been to all the world astonishingly normal, right up until the day he'd vanished with a two-line note.

The difference between them was he seemed to _know_ when he was bleeding out, even if he didn't much feel like sharing. At the time it had infuriated her when she discovered how neatly he'd put his affairs—canceled his lease, sold his car, even sent SHEILD HR a resignation letter. The note to her had seemed careless in comparison. 

With that in mind, she found the courage to ask. "Do - Do you have anything you want to say to me?"

He stroked his fingers through her hair. "I was pretty out of it. I didn't actually think about losing my arm. Blood poisoning is pretty good at being fatal." He sighed. "I guess just. . . I was afraid, too." 

She nodded, running her hand along his arm, tracing the new scar, then the dark, half-moon shaped one she'd given him with her teeth during their fight on the helicarrier. "I would have stayed with you no matter what," she told him. "It wouldn't have mattered to me if you had lost it." 

"You were right, though. I probably would have been someone different. Maybe you wouldn't have liked that person."

He'd thought something similar after New York, she knew. It was why he had run, even from her. He'd been sure she'd leave him in Alaska once he made it clear he was never going to be the Clint she'd known. She lifted her head, shifting away from him slightly to look at his face. She'd looked at that face so much over the years she had it memorized. Better than her own, probably. He wasn't classically handsome, not like Steve's All American good looks or Stark's almost-too-charming swagger. Clint was rougher, broader, harder. But she'd always liked him, from that strange day in Baghdad, when he should have killed her but made a different call. She was fascinated by his eyes, sharp and intense, a pale color caught between blue and green.

She lifted a hand and traced the line of his jaw. "You've put up with my demons. A dozen or more personas. You stuck with me at my darkest and meanest. I would have stuck around to find out the new version of you. We could have figured him out together."

That got him to smile, even though he held her gaze with the same seriousness. "We'll be all right then. Wherever we end up."

For the first time since his fever had spiked and she'd realized his wound was swollen and turning black, Nat believed it. She kissed him lightly, then set her head on his chest, listening to his heart. "Yes. We will."

*

The bar patrons were downright whiny that evening, because Natasha was upstairs on baby duty. Apparently the eye candy was a major source of appeal to their little dive. The radio had been playing nothing but Christmas music, which was amazingly even more annoying in Spanish than it was in English. He made himself a drink just make it bearable. Rudy arriving was the highlight of his evening.

He wondered if Rudy would enjoy inheriting a bar as much as Joe in Stitch Point had.

"It's lively in here," Rudy commented as he came around behind the bar.

"The crowd is disappointed by the lack of Daisy Dukes this evening," he replied.

Rudy frowned. "What's a Daisy Duke?"

Clint sighed, and finished his drink. "You're making me feel very old."

"I think you're just very gringo."

"That too." He leaned on the bar, wondering if it was dead enough he could leave Rudy alone.

"She feeling sick?" Rudy liked to chat. Mostly he talked and Clint nodded. "My sister puked for like four months straight. Lot of women do that. But wait until you see how big her tits are gonna get." 

Clint rubbed his brow. He'd forgotten he'd told the old, nosy biddies at the store that Nat was pregnant, so his buying baby things wouldn't be suspicious. But he found himself pondering that for a crazy minute. He wondered if it would have red hair.

"Ah, now you're getting that goofy new-dad look." Rudy shook his head. "You better get a shotgun if it's a girl, that's all I can say."

There actually was a shotgun under the counter behind Rudy. In fact, he had enough weaponry hidden in this building to lay siege to Fort Knox. Nat mocked him about it, but old habits died hard. "We might go back to the States," he said. "This is kind of a dangerous place. People getting their children kidnapped."

"Ah, I heard about that. Saw the posters, anyway. Someone was doing that kid a favor, you ask me. Roberto Campos is a sonovabitch."

Clint remained impassive. He was good at that. "Is he?"

"If half the stories I hear about him are true, yeah. Kind of cop that beats up his suspects for fun." Rudy poured a beer for a regular who'd just sat down. "Most of the cops here are dirty to one degree or another, but you can get a fair shake if you play the game. Campos thinks he's untouchable. Year or two ago, he beat a guy to death during an interrogation. Kind of thing that'd get most people in some kind of trouble. But he's got so many friends no one touches him."

"Let me guess, he takes money from the cartels?"

"Takes it? Wouldn't surprise me if he ran one as a hobby. Used his badge to take out the competition, you know?"

"He must have some sort of enemies of someone is kidnapping his kid." What he also needed, Clint was beginning to think, was an arrow through the eye.

Rudy shrugged. "I don't know how those cartels work. But from what I've seen of his wife-" He shook his head and lowered his voice. "There's a rumor in town that he killed the kid and the kidnapping is just some story. Everyone's waiting for his wife to end up dead. He'll claim she fell down the stairs and everyone will cluck their tongues and wish someone had done something."

Clint noticed Rudy was now giving him a significant look. "What?"

"You do. . . help people."

"That doesn't make me an assassin." So hilariously untrue. "Or someone who wants to get involved with that level of shit. Corrupt cops and their drug rings? No."

Rudy shrugged. "I guess. Just seems like. .. sooner or later he's gonna kill someone who doesn't deserve it, you know?"

"That's how men like that work." Unless, of course, Clint got him first. Which he was starting to think might be a good idea.

Rudy shrugged again, spotting someone waving him down from the other side of the room. "I know. Just thought you guys had a different idea." He gave Clint a nod before skirting around the bar to take an order.

By the time he closed the bar, he'd made up his mind. 

As satisfying as putting an arrow through his eyeball could be, in this case a bullet was a better option. Less distinctive, less likely to raise eyebrows. More likely to be pinned on the cartel or some other product of Campos's corrupt dealings.

His available weapons were not entirely satisfactory. He'd stocked them for home (or boat) defense when he'd feared Nat's past might be coming for her. All close quarters, except for his bow. As satisfying as, say, a shotgun to the face might be, he really wanted to do this from a rooftop across the street. During most of his career he'd only shot with a rifle when the distance was too far for an arrow, and for that SHIELD had furnished him .50 caliber Barrett he really wished he had at the moment. 

He was contemplating the accuracy of the only long gun he had, a disco-era 30-aught-6 Nat had stolen when they were in Tijuana, when he stepped into the apartment. Nat met him as he closed the door, wrapping her arms around him and pinning his arms to his side "I just got the baby asleep," she whispered, leaning up to speak in his ear. "If you wake him I will enact punishments on you the likes of which you have never imagined."

He grinned. "Is that a promise?" He gave her a quick kiss. He could do that for a bit before he went to see if the scope was still wobbly. 

"You assume you'll enjoy these punishments," she murmured. "Don't you know I can do horrible things to men?" She ruined the threat by nuzzling his throat affectionately.

He ran his hands down her spine. "Is he in the bedroom?"

She nodded. "He was fussy, even when I gave him the bottle. I think he'd going to be happy to see his mama."

"When you think he's out for good, I need to go in there and get the rifle from the closet. Also, do we have duck tape?"

"I- Why do you need the rifle?"

"Rudy told me some things that have made me realize the world would be a much better place without Roberto Campos in it."

She shifted away from him to look at his face. "Clint. You can't just kill him."

"Why the hell not?" He stepped out of her grasp to go into the kitchen to look for the tape for the wobbly scope.

"Because he has friends that will come look for you?" she offered, following him. "Because he has enemies that might take credit and start a war between cartels?"

"I know how to cover my tracks, no one is coming looking for me." He had no answer for the second one, other than his general policy to not contemplate larger political ramifications of his assassinations. He'd trusted SHIELD. Which, granted, turned out to be a mistake. But now these weren't anyones orders but his own.

Nat watched from the doorway as he started yanking drawers open, looking for the tape. "Clint, you can't just assassinate a guy because he's an asshole. There's too many of them. There's nothing special about this guy that makes him any more worth your time then a dozen other cartel members. This isn't. . . this isn't a good idea."

"There's asshole, and then there's trying to kill your own kid."

She didn't seem to have an answer for that. She reached up, on top of the fridge and pulled down a roll of duck tape. When he went to grab it from her she caught his hands, "Look at me," she said quietly, ducking her head so he would. "This doesn't sound like you. How's your line of sight right now?"

He didn't like it when she pinned him like that. Like she could see through him. He pulled away, and leaned against the counter. "Undoubtedly obscured by tequila and bad memories," he said reluctantly.

She gave him his space, stepping back to sit on the little table so the doorway was open. Funny, when she was upset he crowded her, got in her space. "Your father," she asked gently. 

He never liked to talk about it much around her. It was a very pedestrian tale, really, compared to being taken by the government and turned into a human weapon at an age most children were just learning to read. There was nothing terribly special about one's alcoholic father knocking his family around. Happened every day. "Couldn't say the world wouldn't have been better of if someone had put him down."

"I know. I'm not saying he wouldn't deserve it. Or that this guy doesn't deserve it. But you're not seeing the whole field right now. Yes, Marisol and Carlos would have a better life. But they'll have that in Costa Rica, too. And we don't know all the players now. Taking Campos out could destabilize the cartels around here. Cause a war between them. Even something as straight forward as a power grab is going to have casualties. Ripples that will affect everyone here." She reached out with a foot and touched his leg with a toe. "You were the one who told me I couldn't put faces from my past on bodies in the present."

Using his own advice against him was clever. And correct. "Yeah."

She was silent a moment. "I'm sorry he hurt you."

Of all the things he expected her to say, it wasn't that. There was something painful and piercing about empathy. "It was a long time ago." 

The corner of her mouth lifted, ever so slightly. "Most of my awful shit was a long time ago but some jackass keeps making me deal with it. Seems to help."

"Your awful shit is pretty epic. And compared to Campos my father may not even be that bad. I don't think he killed anyone." 

She tilted her head. "Have you ever heard of a book called Man's Search for Meaning? It was written by a holocaust survivor named Victor Frankl. In it, he compares suffering to a gas. You put gas in an empty room and it fills the room. A person's suffering fills them up, big or little. It's all relative." Very slowly, she slid off the table to step closer to him. "Pain is pain, Clint. I'm never going to tell you that your childhood wasn't that bad, because mine was worse. It was yours. It was bad."

He looked over at her. "We really are having a couple of days, aren't we?"

"They say Christmas is the most depressing time of year."

"And then someone left us a baby."

She slid an arm around his waist, tucking into his side. "Maybe we should avoid conversations in the kitchen. They've been going poorly for us."

He kissed the top of her head. "We could go fool around on the couch again. That worked out well."

Her other arm slid around him. "I think I was promising to do awful things to you when you came in."

He smiled into her hair. It was the language they could speak when neither of them felt much like talking, but needed to say something. He wondered sometimes if they'd had it all along, he never would have had to run. "I think I would like a demonstration of these things."

Very deliberately, she reached past him and dug a glass out of the cabinet, then went to the freezer to fill it with ice. Her eyes were dark when she hooked a finger through one of his belt loops, backing up to drag him to the living room, holding the glass of ice like a prize. "First we start with cold," she said, in an over the top Russian accent, worthy of a Boris and Natasha cartoon.

He grinned widely. He loved his wife.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this one and we're done. If anyone knows why AO3 refuses to remember how many chapters I've said the story has, despite me filling it in several times, I'd love to know.

Nat was back in Baghdad, in a burnt out building, watching the American who'd been tailing her for days put down his weapon and climb down from his perch to talk to her. He was handsome and earnest. HIs smile seemed sincere as he told her he was supposed to kill her, but wanted to make a different call. That she could come with him, work for his people, be safe.

She was so tired. Broken. She knew another visit to the Red Room awaited her when she returned to Russia. And some small, uncertain voice inside her - the voice of the girl she'd been ten, twenty, a hundred lives ago - begged her to say yes.

Instead, she lifted her weapon and shot him. Twice in the head. As she watched dark blood spread across the dust she didn't understand the grief she felt.

Nat jerked awake, half sitting before she was aware of her surroundings. The room was still, lit by early dawn light. She was breathing hard and was afraid for a moment she'd cried out. Carlos seemed to be sleeping soundly, though. Maybe it had just been in her head.

She felt Clint's hand on her back. "Hey."

Steeling herself, she looked over at him, blinking away the image of two holes in his forehead and blood in the dirt. She reached for him, needing to feel him warm and alive under her hands. "Bad dream," she said, voice hoarse.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his very solid chest. "It happens."

Her heart was still pounding but his was steady under her ear. He smelled familiar, comforting, and she took a few deep breaths before she spoke again. "I dream about you dying. But sometimes - often - I'm the one killing you."

He stroked her hair, and let out a surprisingly unsteady breath. "I dream about that, too. Killing you. Ever since New York." 

It shouldn't have been comforting, but it was. To know their unconscious fears wandered the same dark paths sometimes. "It starts out as a memory. Baghdad or one of our early missions. Sometimes the helicarrier. And at some point it changes. And for an instant when I wake up I'm not sure it it was real or not."

"Mine are usually the fight on the helicarrier. Though since we got back from Alaska. . ." He shook his head. "You know I really. . . you don't want to know."

She shifted to look up at him, honestly a little flummoxed despite her lingering fear. "Now I'm curious."

His eyes were very guarded. "There's a certain nightmare where he has me again, and he makes me strangle you." He touched her throat. "Barehanded."

She caught his hand, let it wrap around her neck, sensing he needed the sign of trust. "It's been the fight on the carrier a few times. Instead of knocking you out your neck snaps when you hit the bar. That's almost the worst one. I was trying so hard to save you."

"We are unguarded when we sleep. All our worst fears get to run free." She felt him move and watched him unconsciously touch the bite scar on his arm. He did that sometimes when she mentioned the fight. 

He was probably the only person on earth who could get close enough to kill her like that. She didn't say that, though. His thoughts were dark enough. "I hate that it seems so real. It's ruining the real memories for me."

"The real memories are bad enough as it is," he said. His arms tightened. "I'm sorry."

She stroked his arm, resting her head in his chest again. She didn't want him going to those dark places that thoughts of Loki took him. She cast about for something to distract him. "I have good memories of you. Not from Loki and New York, but- Do you remember the mission in Monaco? With the Saudi oil magnate? I'd only been with SHIELD a year or so. I always saw you in tactical clothes or your jeans and t-shirts. And you came into the casino in a tux, looking like James Bond. I almost missed my window I was so busy staring at you."

"I had no idea you liked the monkey suit. Maybe I should wear it more. Though God knows where it is. I do remember your dress, though." 

"When the op was over I thought about slipping into your room and offering to help you take it off." It felt oddly like a confession.

He sighed. "I wonder what we'd be if you had."

"I was afraid you'd think I was working an angle and send me away. I liked you and didn't want you to stop working with me." She sighed. "The timing wasn't right, I was still young and fragile." She glanced up at him, "I did fantasize about it, on my own. First time I ever wanted a man on my own and not for a mission. Looking back, I think it was something like a teenage crush."

"I appreciate you not making me find the limits of my self control," he said after a moment. "I don’t know that it would have held."

"Sometimes I regret the time we wasted. But sometimes I think maybe it happened when it needed to happen. It would have been hard to juggle this on the job."

"We would have hated being apart so much."

"And we would have been distracted when we were together." She couldn't help but think that the Loki thing would have been much, much worse if they'd been properly a couple. She shuddered to think how she'd handle something like that now. 

He tugged on her, just a little. "Lay down with me."

She nodded and they resettled, her head pillowed on his shoulder, arm draped over his chest. She didn't think she'd sleep again, but it was nice just to lay and be peaceful with him. Slowly he stroked his hand along her arm. "We both have entirely too much baggage," he told her. "But at least it's a matched set."

Laughing would only encourage him. Still, she couldn't help her little chuckle. "There are worse things."

"I love you," he told her.

It was strange how words that had always frightened her could now warm her. "I love you back."

Across the room, Carlos began fussing in his crib. They were both very still, until it ramped up into a full yell. Clint rubbed her back. "I'll get him."

She shifted so he could get up. "We gotta get him back to his mother," she said.

"I was doing some research while you were trying to get dinner in him." He went over to pick up the baby, sitting him on the foot of the bed for a diaper change. It amused her how quickly he'd taken to him, after his initial discomfort. "I think flying them out of Caracas to Costa Rica is the best bet. Flights aren't that expensive. It's mostly a matter of getting her out."

She reached down to distract Carlos as Clint worked, so the baby wouldn't try to roll over mid-change. "She's had enough time to get her bag together. The security was minimal. We just have to time it when Campos is out of the house and we should be able to sneak her out with minimal hassle."

"I'm a little worried broad daylight is dangerous." Diaper securely on, he let Charlie roll over and crawl toward Nat as he got back into bed. "Maybe he'll sleep."

The baby settled on her chest, nuzzling at the top of her breast like it was a pillow. Instinctively, she wrapped an arm around him and rubbed his back as Clint resettled next to her, tucking an arm around both of them. Nat felt a sudden, sharp pang at how natural it felt and how impossible it was for them.

"We can't keep him," he said.

"I know," she said, looking down at the dark head on her chest. "I don't want it. I just. . . I always figured I'd be a bad mom, so not having one didn't bother me. Turns out I'm not as terrible at it as I thought. It's just a surprise."

"Are you saying you. . . want one?" The look on his face was priceless.

She stared at him. "God, no. Jesus, can you imagine?" She shook her head and patted Carlos lightly. "Even it I wanted to I can't. My handlers in the Widow program made damn sure of that."

He sighed, reaching out to stroke the baby’s back. "I suspected something like that." He chuckled a little. "It's funny, I never asked. When we started sleeping together. I just trusted that if there was a woman on the planet who had her birth control iron clad, it was you."

"First thing they do when your period starts is sterilize you. For our health, they said." She shrugged. "Considering what else they did to me it didn't seem that bad."

"I don't know. It's still an awful thing to take from someone."

She turned her head and pressed a kiss into his shoulder. "For better or worse, they made me someone who wouldn't know how to be a mother. Considering I went with them in the first place because my family had too many mouths to feed, maybe wrecking my fertility was a blessing."

"Apparently there are now lots of technological advances in that area," he said, making a face that got her to chuckle. "Steve and I got a completely unprovoked earful on that from Stark once. Last time I let him into the Alaska still vodka." 

"Can you imagine Stark with a kid?" she said suddenly. The reason Stark knew enough about fertility treatments to gross out Clint was that Pepper had some sort of cancer scare and ended up needed to freeze eggs. Apparently, freezing embryos was statistically more successful and, as he and Pepper had been in a relationship and he felt obligated to spread the Stark seed as far as it could go, they’d come to some sort of agreement. Said agreement was probably over six months old now. "He's probably make it a little hover board thing so it could float around. Iron baby."

Clint laughed out loud. "I feel like they’ll do all right. Pepper will temper his. . . Starkness. Though, I think Steve would make the best parent. He'd raise decent and normal people."

Carlos shifted, flopping onto his back so he was squeezed between them. Nat took a deep breath and rolled on her side so she could look at Clint. "I think you're probably right. Bruce might be a good second place. He certainly wrangles Stark better than anyone. But he's about as likely to do so as we are."

"Dangerous lives and uncertain futures."

"Yeah," she said softly. She looked down at Carlos and stroked his hair. "If we can get him back to his mom and get them both somewhere safe I'll consider it a win. Another debt gone."

"Good." He leaned over so he could kiss her, gently, lightly.

Part of her thought it might be the last one she'd wipe. If they did what they were talking about, moving on, living small. No more helping. No more missions. She could live with that. She thought so, anyway. Her ledger of red for him safe. That was a trade she could live with.

*

Prepping for an Op was familiar territory, and Clint had everything put together with his usual precision. Plane tickets. Driving routes. Timetables and backup plans.

He also, now, just as they were about to put everything in motion, had a shirt covered in baby vomit.

"Right now you're thanking whatever God you believe in that I'm missing part of my tubes," Nat said, holding out a spare shirt as he stripped. At least someone thought this was funny.

"What did you feed him? It smells like. . ." He didn't know. It just smelled bad. He considered thanking the gods he didn't believe in, too.

"Vomit is never pleasant, Clint." She tossed him the shirt and went back to the bedroom, coming back with a fistful of baby wipes. "It's almost over."

He stood still and let her clean his skin. "This part isn't that bad."

She smiled and gave him a knowing look. "I haven't given you a massage in a while."

He gave her a quick kiss. "Not now, honey, we have people to kidnap."

"We'll rain check it, then." She tossed the wipes away as he pulled the fresh shirt on. "We good to go?"

He did a weapons check. "As ever."

Nat scooped Carlos and his bag up and they headed down to the "borrowed" car. She buckled him into the equally borrowed car seat while Clint loaded the last of the gear into the trunk. Then they were off, heading to the high end neighborhood that Campos lived in. He would drop Nat off a block away. She'd get Marisol away from the house, and then he'd swing by and pick them up. They didn't want anyone to notice the baby.

He pulled up to the curb and Nat tugged her gloves on and checked her watch. "I'll see you back here in fifteen."

"Be safe," he said quietly.

She leaned over and kissed him. "Think about what you want me to do to you once we have our bedroom to ourselves again." She winked and climbed out of the car, disappearing into the dark side yard of a house.

Carlos squawked from the back seat as Clint pulled out to drive around. "Yeah, yeah. You're going to fall in love some day, buddy, and then you'll see."

He did a tour of the neighborhood, finding his way back to the curb fifteen minutes later. Only to find a thin, frightened looking woman with a backpack standing there.

Alone.

He pulled up to the curb, stopping with the little too much force. He rolled down the window. "Marisol?" She nodded, and then her face lit up as she saw the baby. She was already opening the back door when he said, "Get in." Then he turned in his seat. "Where is she?"

She was unwrapping Carlos' blanket so she could touch his skin. "My husband caught us sneaking out. She got me out a window and told me where to find you and said she would deal with Roberto." She finally looked at him. "She said to tell you to take a lap around the block, she had some tension to work out and it wouldn't take long."

He ground his teeth. "Can you drive?"

She nodded. "Are you going after her?"

"I'm going to drive around the block exactly once, as requested. Then I am going after her."

*

Nat watched Marisol run across the yard, melting into the shadows at the edge of the lawn. She had faith the woman would make it to the rendezvous site. Her baby was at the other end.

The door of the parlor they'd locked themselves in shuddered and cracked. One more blow and she'd have company. She scanned the room for weapons and furniture stable enough to use as launch points. Then the door slammed open and Roberto Campos stepped into the room, red faced and fuming.

"Who the fuck are you?" he spat. "Where's my wife?"

Nat squared off against him. "My name is Natasha Romanov. And I've been dying to meet you." She took two steps forward, used a coffee table as a launch point and attacked.

He was big and muscular. A street fighter. But grace he did not have. She found his blows surprisingly easy to duck. She danced with him a bit, just for fun. To make the eventual beat down sting a little more. If Clint hadn't been waiting for her she could have done it all night.

Finally, she got down to business, ramming the heel of her boot into his kneecap with a satisfying crunch. He went down and she slammed a knee into his face, breaking his nose with a spurt of blood.

He staggered back, hand over his face. "Fuck. Who _are_ you?"

"I am the person taking your wife far, far away from you." She slammed a fist into his face. Then another. "If you look for her. If you try to find her. If she even smells your fucking cologne you will regret it." She spun and kicked his throat, knocking him down, choking on his now battered windpipe. She bent to add. "When I beat someone up a second time? I start taking trophies."

All she got in reply was an inarticulate, choked noise. She considered taking a picture for Marisol, but figured she probably wouldn't appreciate it. She boosted herself out the window and started sprinting for the street. If she was lucky, Clint had taken the trip around the block real slow.

She got there just in time to see him getting out of the car, and Marisol getting out to come up to the driver's seat. She gave their 'all clear' whistle, jogging out to the sidewalk. She couldn't read his face well enough in the moonlight to tell if he was pissed or not. He apparently shooed Marisol back to the backseat and got behind the wheel. He leaned over and popped the passenger door open. "He dead?" Clint asked. His voice was completely neutral.

"Probably not. Shouldn't try to follow her, either." She dropped into the seat and yanked the door closed so he could pull away. She eased her glove off to check her hand for split knuckles.

He glanced at her at the next intersection. "You all right?"

"They say to never hit a man with a closed fist. But it is, on occasion, hilarious."

He blew out a breath. "Do you think we have time to come back for our stuff?"

She glanced over at him. "He won't be able to talk for a couple of days. We should be all right."

"Well. We did say we were done." 

She hadn't even thought about the fact it would blow them. She hadn't had much choice. If she hadn't fought him, hadn't put him down, then they'd probably have him or some of his men on their tail right now. But it meant the end for them here. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Should I have just killed him?"

He inclined his head towards the backseat, where Marisol could hear them, but was very silent. She had no idea if she understood any English or not. "Let's discuss this later."

Nat glanced back at the woman, who gave her a shaky smile. Nat returned it, hoping she looked reassuring, then faced forward. "All right." She still couldn't tell if he was angry with her or not.

The drive to Caracas was long and very silent. They parked to walk Marisol and Carlos into the terminal. Clint gave her her plane tickets, an envelope full of cash, and phone. "You call us when you clear customs on the other side."

She gripped the envelope to her chest and looked from one to the other. "I can't ever thank you enough. I don't. . . I don't know what to say."

"Have a good life," Nat told her. "Raise Carlos to be a good man. We don't need any more than that."

"I promise," Marisol said softly. "I promise." 

Nat watched Clint reach out and rub Carlos’ back. Then he said, "Go."

Marisol gave them one last nod and turned, walking down the breezeway with her head held high. They waited until the gate doors were closed before walking away to return to the car. Nat shoved her hands into her pockets, hunching her shoulders as she waited for him to speak.

"I'm tired of everything being temporary," he finally said. "I have the strongest urge to go home. . . except I have no idea where that it."

She looked up at him. It hadn't been what she expected. But she knew exactly what he meant. She took a breath of night air, looking up at the sky. "Some days I don't even know what home is. What it means." She hesitated, then looked at him again. "Home's never been a place for me."

"That's what I'm saying. We just blow around like tumbleweeds. No roots."

"Our friends are in New York," she offered. "But it means losing some of our privacy." She could see pros and cons to the company. It might be nice to people to ask for advice - though who she would ask she couldn't begin to think. Pepper? Maria? But on the other hand, she didn't know how she felt about having an audience while they figured themselves out.

"Do you want to go back to New York?" he asked.

They reached the car and she leaned on it, facing him. "I don't know," she said honestly. "I want to be with you. I want a big bed and a kitchen I can keep butchering recipes in. I want no one shooting at us and to be reasonably certain I won't lose you." She hesitated, then reached out and touched his chest lightly. "You're home to me. If you want to find a place to put roots then I'm with you. New York, Stitch Point or anywhere in between."

He looked down at her. "Maybe it isn't really roots. Maybe it's just. . .safety. For both of us."

"Safety would be almost as novel as roots," she said with a wry smile. She rubbed her fingers against his chest, rumpling his t-shirt. "I think New York would be a. . . commitment. An announcement we were back from whatever it is we were doing. I like our friends, but I don't think we're ready for that yet. We still need to figure _us_ out. But the world is open to us now. We can blend anywhere. We just need to decide what it is we need. Safety means first world. A city means anonymity, but we'll lose the simplicity we seem to crave."

"We've been failing at simplicity lately." He opened the passenger door and gestured for her to get in. "We've got a couple of hours drive back to make up our minds." He got in his side, and put the car in gear. "What do we want? Where do we go?"

It had almost been easier when their IDs were shaky. There was a limited number of places they could squeak by in. Now their options were too open, too varied. She thumped her head back against the head rest. "All right. Gut instinct, first thought. Let's narrow it down. United States, yes or no?"

"No. Don't want to get noticed and subpoenaed."

She nodded, agreeing. "Good. Europe?"

"I have a stash of gold bricks in a bank in Zurich. And we could get a real Christmas Tree."

A grin spread across her face. "Gold bricks, huh? Did you have a pirate phase I don't know about?"

"I got them from an Emerati Prince on a side job. Take a guy out, keep what I find. That's what I found." He glanced at her. "So Europe?"

"Europe." A sense of peace settled in her chest. "If we can pass through Venice I have a safety deposit box with some bonds and jewelry. Get us some spending cash."

She could see him smiling, too, now. "Agreed. Stay in Italy, yes or no?"

She went with her gut, as she'd told him to do, and said, "Yes. We don't have any memories there, yet."

"Italy it is. Though Venice is damp and foggy in winter." He changed lanes. "Let's be cliched and spend Christmas in Paris. Then we'll come back south and set up. . . I don't know. Tuscany? Rome? Naples?"

"Rome. Like the Audrey Hepburn movie."

He chuckled. "That's kind of adorable."

She resisted the urge to punch his arm, in far too good a mood. "You leave me my rare moments of girlishness."

"I'm not riding on a Vespa. Just drawing that line right there."

If she smiled any wider her cheeks would ache. She reached over and put a hand on his thigh. "I suppose I'll live with that."


	6. Chapter 6

Finding a flat in Paris in December was no easy feat. Natasha had given him her woman-of-mystery look, and said she'd call in a favor. Given how nice the place ended up being, and it's glaring lack of cost, Clint was pretty sure it belonged to Stark. He didn't entirely care. They could call it a honeymoon. 

She'd gone out running errands of some sort—also with her woman-of-mystery look—and he decided to go about getting himself a real damn Christmas Tree. One that smelled like pine and left needles all over the floor.

The shower was running when he returned with it and the bag of lights he'd grabbed at the drug store down the block. He put the tree up, stringing about half a dozen sets of white lights on it, listening to the water turn off. She didn't come out right away and eventually he heard what sounded like a hair dryer going. It was a little odd, she generally didn't fuss when it was just them. Maybe Paris inspired primping.

He sat on the couch, lights dimmed and curtains open so he could admire his tree and the view of Paris at the same time. 

Eventually, he heard the bathroom door open and Nat's soft tread in the bedroom, then her voice from the doorway. "What do you think?"

He looked over to see her standing in soft cotton pants and an expensive looking silk shirt. And dark red hair. He felt a smile spread across his face. "God, I missed that."

She touched it lightly. "It was the closest color I could find. I think if I keep it up I can grow the brown out pretty easily." She stepped farther into the room. "You got a tree."

"It was on my list of goals. Do you think it's crooked?" 

He watched her cross the room to the tree and touch one of the branches. "I think they're supposed to be crooked. Adds character." She stood there a moment, lit by the tree lights and silhouetted against the lights of Paris. His Tasha. 

"I think you're the most beautiful woman in the world," he said quietly.

She looked almost surprised when she looked over at him. He knew it wasn't the first time she'd heard that. She fluffed her hair again and walked over to him, sitting on his lap. "I had a thought, when I was in the shower."

"A. . .naked thought?"

Her fingers wound into his hair. "Baby, I don't have to be in the shower to have naked thought about you." She kissed him. "It was a serious thought. But it can wait if you had other things on your mind."

He nibbled on her neck. It wasn't until he saw it again he realized just how much he'd missed the red hair. He'd always found it particularly hot. "Curiosity is warring with libido," he told her.

"I was thinking that when caterpillars turn into butterflies, they don't just grow wings, they remake themselves entirely." She leaned closer to him, silk rustling and sliding over his arms. "I think Venezuela was our cocoon. And now we're on the next stage. Remade."

He leaned back and looked at her. "And what are we now?"

She studied him, head tilted. He wondered if she'd even gotten that far in her thoughts. "Mr. and Mrs. Barton?" she offered finally, a faint smile on her lips.

He smiled back. She looked more relaxed than he'd seen her in a while—certainly since they first moved to Venezuela, and even then she'd been more guarded, more fragile. Right now she looked the most like herself. "Funny how that was supposed to be paperwork. I wish we'd taken pictures."

The smile grew a little. "I will bet you any amount of money that Steve snuck one on his cell phone."

"I'll call him, we can put it on the mantle."

She giggled. He honestly couldn't recall the last time he'd heard her make that noise. "We're gonna have a mantle."

"It's on my list now. Along with a nice kitchen. I suppose we should find whatever the Italian version of a real estate agent is."

"I'll call Pepper. I'm sure she knows one." She had been trailing her fingers along his arms. Now she wove her fingers into his and pressed his hands into the couch, pinning them near his head. "We can get a nice big bed," she murmured, leaning in to kiss him. 

The kiss went on a while, and he was happy to let it. "We could make a camp cot work," he replied.

She kissed his jaw. "I believe we have." She nipped his earlobe, then sucked lightly, teasing with her tongue. Her fingers squeezed his. "Have I ever told you how much I love your hands?" she murmured in his ear.

"My hands are terrible." In the time before her—which he was struggling to remember—the calluses on his fingers had been a source of complaint.

"They always fascinated me. So big and rough. They look like they should be clumsy, but you have the nimblest fingers I've ever seen." She straightened, slowly releasing him to reached behind her neck and untie something before tugging her shirt up and off. She wasn't wearing anything beneath it and he could see her nipples were already tight. "Before we were together, I used to watch you touch your bow and wonder what it would be like to have you touch me like that."

There was something very intimate about the confession, even for them. He lifted a hand to cup one breast, and brushed the nipple with his thumb. "You told me it made you think you would trust me with all manner of fragile things."

She caught her lower lip in her teeth, arching into his touch. The motion was so immediate he knew it had to be instinctive. "There's a. . . reverence to it. Like you know how strong it is and how easily broken it could be and you tread the line expertly. No one had ever touched me like that." Her hand flattened on his chest, then slid down, tugging his shirt up enough to slide beneath. "You touched me casually often enough I knew where your calluses were. So I would imagine what they would feel like on my breasts, my sex. Stroking with that same reverence."

"I feel very reverent about you." He traced his fingers down the curve of her waist. "And you're not fragile. Just precious. Like a work of art." His touch raised goosebumps on her skin. 

She interrupted his exploration to pull his shirt off. Her hands always managed to be soft, no matter what she'd been doing, how rough her work had been. She stroked his chest, tracing the lines of his pectorals, ghosting her palm over the sparse hair. With a ripple of muscle she bent close to kiss his skin, her hair falling over her shoulders to slide against him.

He counted the bumps of her spine as he traced his fingertips from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. Since they'd quickly packed up their things in Venezuela, and then hopped around Europe collecting their funds and other things, there hadn't been much time to. . . take their time. Not that there was another wrong with a hotel room quickie.

But there was definitely something different about this tonight. For the longest time they each conducted slow, leisurely explorations of the other. As if this was the first time. As if they didn't have every inch memorized already. They had all night to do this, to please each other. They had to rest of their lives to figure out new ways to do this.

Slowly, with patience he didn't know he had, he unhooked the front of her pants. He slid a hand inside to find her underwear-free and completely drenched, the light cotton of her slacks soaked through. Her breath caught at his touch and she made a quiet noise. She lifted her head and found his mouth with hers, sinking her hand into his hair in a mimic of the way he often held hers. She kissed him like she wanted to devour him. Like she was drowning and he was her only air.

He tugged at her pants when the kiss slowed. "Take these off?" he whispered. A request, not an order. No games tonight.

With obvious reluctance, she nodded, releasing him. He let his hand fall away as she stood, skimming the cotton down her legs. "Yours too," she murmured. He managed to get his off without getting off the couch, as inelegant as it probably looked. It didn't help most of his attention was focused on her, standing there in the lights of the tree and the city behind her, one hand on her hip. She really was the most beautiful woman in the world.

He didn't say it, but maybe she read it in his face, because the smile she gave him was sweet and tender. She straddled him again, moving slow and easy, apparently in no rush. Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him. "I love you," she whispered on his mouth. "Touch me. Please?"

He stroked one knuckle down her stomach, with unreasonable slowness, but he felt her tense in anticipation. When he found her clit she shuddered, and he grinned in satisfaction. He stroked exactly how she liked it, slow, swirling circles. She rested her forehead on his and rocked, gentle little motions of her hips. He paused to dip a finger lower, coating himself in her moisture, before returning to her clit and pressing harder.

"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, Clint. Don't stop. Please, please."

He did kind of like it when she begged. But he didn't torment her. Not tonight. He leaned up to kiss her mouth. "I won't, I promise."

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, the back of his head. As if she was afraid of falling, afraid of losing him. Her hips began to rock faster and he changed his pace to meet hers. She whispered his name a few more times, urgent and needy. Then her head fell back and she moaned. He could feel her pulsing against his fingers, her thighs trembling on his. He kept stroking her, drawing out the orgasm, keeping her at the peak as long as she could stand, before slowing, petting her as she slumped against him.

He rested his head against the back of the couch for a moment while she floated in her haze. She only really, really let go if she had nothing else to focus on—because he was giving her commands, or because he was just getting her off. He liked it. He liked to shatter her. Though he was now so hard it hurt.

After what felt like an eternity she shifted, moving her hips closer to his. The head of his cock slid against her folds as she repositioned herself. She was preternaturally good at this, lining them up without using her hands, without even looking sometimes. She lifted her head, watching his face as she rubbed against him, coating him in her moisture. She caught her lip in her teeth as if to stifle a smile, then tipped her hips so he sat at her entrance. She rocked slowly, taking him in an inch, then retreating, then taking a little more before easing away again. She was wet enough to have taken him in one move, but still tight from the orgasm, so the slow pace was sweet, utter torture.

He grit his teeth. "You're trying to kill me, woman." He felt as much as heard her chuckle in response.

"Never," she promised. "I just love how you look when I drive you a little mad." With a few more rocks he was buried to the hilt inside her. Her lids fluttered a little. She braced her hands on either side of his head, gripping the back of the couch and began to move on him, thighs and abs working as she took him in long, slow thrusts. "You feel so good inside me," she whispered in his ear.

He skimmed his hands over her, down her back, letting them rest on her thighs. He was content to let her be in control, let her ride him. She sure as hell knew what she was doing, torture and all. He kissed her neck. "Because you're mine."

She groaned, her pace faltering slightly at the words. It still amazed him how much that affected her. How easily it turned her on. She kissed his face, feather light. "Yes. Only yours. Always."

It felt good, too good. Almost more than he could handle, the way she started rolling her hips just the right way. Still. . . "Will you come for me again?"

Another breathy groan in his ear. "Yes. God yes." She shifted, sitting up and releasing the couch to reach behind her and grip his legs for balance. It changed the angle, the way she moved, so that she was grinding against him in short little thrusts, the friction incredible. It gave him a perfect view of her body as she moved. "You can watch," she told him, head tipping back. "Watch what you do to me." He could already feel the subtle change in her, the fluttering of well toned muscles surrounding his cock.

He put his hand on her lower stomach, just above her hair. She did that sometimes, when she was very aroused and trying to hold it in. When he wouldn't let her touch herself. He could see her shiver as she recognized the gesture. He stroked the hair with his thumb, but that was as close as he got. There was power in deprivation, in a near miss.

Her motions grew jerky, uncontrolled. He could feel the muscles under his hand, taut and shaking with tension. "Clint. _Clint_." He knew she had to be close. She said his name more during sex than any other time. Like she was reminding herself it was real. Her nails dug into his thighs and she hissed, "Mine." Then she was coming around him, clenching around him, muscles gripping his cock with blinding intensity.

He wanted to watch, but he couldn't, not really, because she was pulling him with her. It was hot and fast and overwhelming, like the whole world had exploded. He called for her— he thought he did anyway, but for a moment he wasn't entirely sure of anything.

The first thing he was aware of, when the haze passed, was her warm weight on his chest. He slid a hand over her back, her skin hot and damp. She nuzzled his neck. "Fuck," she mumbled, sounding drained. "God, baby."

He found the energy to chuckle, brushing the hair off her neck. "Fuck, indeed."

She stroked his arm, fingers slow and idle. "No, I've done a lot of fucking. We need a new word for whatever that was. Maybe rapture, I'm pretty sure I saw God."

"It's. . . something. Some kind of voodoo." He sighed. "The way it is with us, it's never been like that with anyone else."

"Mmm." She nuzzled his neck again, curling her hand over his shoulder to hold herself snug against him. He loved how soft and snuggly she got afterwards. All her walls stripped away. "Me neither. I thought it was because it was real. Because I want you, trust you. But I know you've had women - normal women - before. So it must be something else."

There was some sort of blanket over the back of the couch, and he dragged it down to wrap around them. They weren't in the tropics anymore. "I didn't love any of them."

He could tell that surprised her, she started briefly before resettling on him. She's never asked about his previous relationships, whether because she already knew or because she didn’t want tof. "I thought it might get dull eventually. Routine. But we keep surprising me. It's as exciting now as it was at the beginning. Like I can't keep my hands off you."

He swallowed the crass joke that popped into his head, because they were having a serious conversation. "We do keep reinventing ourselves."

She was silent a moment. "You're the last man I'll ever do this with," she said softly, as if she'd just realized it herself.

"Well. Statistically you're likely to outlive me. If you find yourself a studly dude in the old folks home, feel free to have all the awkward geriatric sex you want."

She held up a finger. "First of all, ew, way to ensure you're not getting round two. Second, no, you've ruined me for all others."

"Honey, I don't think I could make round two happen right now even if you told me you've learned how to suck a golf ball through a garden hose." He paused. "Well. Maybe."

"That sounds like a challenge," she muttered. She shifted, slipping off his lap and stretching her legs a moment before tucking close to fit under the blanket with him. "I suppose I can settle for being the last woman you'll do this with," She flattened a hand on his belly and stroked down slightly. "I find that oddly satisfying."

"That's usually how marriage works, isn't it? To love and be faithful, death do you part."

"I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention to the vows." She smirked at the look he gave her. "Sometimes I think we did things backwards. Got married and then figured out how our relationship would actually work."

He watched her for a moment. "Why don't we do it for real?"

She leaned back to look at him. "Get married?"

"Yes," he said, suddenly very sure of this. "Marry me. Mean the vows."

He watched a number of emotions play out over her face. Then she smiled and touched his cheek. "Yes."

He pulled her close so he could kiss her. "I love you."

She curled her arms around his neck. "I love you, too." She kissed him and added in a whisper, "Merry Christmas, Clint."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha will return in _Leaves That Are Green_ , starting next Friday.


End file.
